


Burning Bridges

by YvesAdele



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Aphenphosmphobia, Beta Read, Canon Compliant, Coming Untouched, F/M, I basically bullshitted this whole story, I way oversimplified, Male Masturbation, Masturbation, Missionary, Nipple Play, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex, Sex Pollen, So sue me, Sort Of, because I wanted to write a smut, besides that it's incredibly long, but in Monster form, gross misrepresentation of aphenphosmphobia, i had a man beta read this, implied bisexual sam, ish, just to make sure I was getting it right, like seriously, no major spoilers, sam deals with his issues, sam jacks off too many times, shady scientific explanations, so enjoy it and don't examine it too closely, the title is a terrible pun, whoo boy what do I even tag this sugary monstrosity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvesAdele/pseuds/YvesAdele
Summary: There's not exactly something in the water...but Sam's pretty sure he came into contact with *something*. It starts out innocent enough, from Sam's perspective...but things just keep escalating.Basically an excuse to showcase the different places and positions Sam can masturbate. And then eventually a sex scene.
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges & Fragile, Sam Porter Bridges/Fragile
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	Burning Bridges

**Author's Note:**

> HEADS UP! I'm adding these notes at a later date for a few reasons. I realized upon a re-read that there's some ableist language and negative self-talk in this fic. Such is the nature of Sam Porter Bridges. I think most DS fans will already be prepared for this, but it can be triggering if you're unprepared.
> 
> As with the note I put on my last fic, I'd like to remind all my readers of this important fact: CONSENT IS REVOKABLE! That includes the media you consume. If my fic ever gets to a point where it's uncomfortable or hurtful to read, click that X button. This is a very soft fic with gentle themes, yes, but if there are words within that make your heart unhappy, click away.
> 
> That said, please enjoy this smutty, dirty goodness. Stay safe, loves!

More than just the usual issues with his environment, like chafing from the straps of his cargo pack, or the nervous hives that often break out over his chest and shoulders, Sam feels it. Has for days. Underneath Sam’s skin burns… _something_. It’s like an itch he can’t quite find, and if he could he wouldn’t know how to scratch it. His stomach flips, hair stands on end. Something lingers just out of reach inside of him, making him antsy and restless. During his last waystation pit stop, he could hardly sleep. It wasn’t the nightmares, or the jarring _hiss_ of equipment sucking out his blood - though that often roused him from slumber. As the days draw on, his head grows lighter, stomach fluttery, like he teeters on the verge of some kind of meltdown. More and more he leans on his canteen, sucking down that energy concoction Bridges cooks up. He’s grown fond of the taste, but he doesn’t love that he’s tired enough to need it all the time. Maybe he’s becoming dependent on the stuff. _Ah well._

He’s surprisingly relieved to work off some of the nervous energy during an encounter with a MULE who strayed from his territory. Sam didn’t realize he’d been spotted crossing through. But it’s only one, and he can take him. Fighting was never Sam’s strong suit, but he’s got something burning inside of him, and it feels good to take it out on an asshole trying to steal his shit. Before he can land a blow, the prod comes out of nowhere, jabbing him in the side and knocking him to the ground. Sam bites back a pained groan when he falls, legs spasming from the electric jolt. There’s a telling _clatter_ of his things falling from the cargo pack. Weirdly, the shock soothes some of the discomfort roiling through his insides. Maybe relief arises from just giving his brain something physical to focus on, pain to distract him from the internal discomfort. He grits his teeth and balls his fists, swinging furiously at the assailant. His first punch connects, knocking the MULE backward but not down. He rides the kinetic energy of the strike, swinging with his left and then kicking him in the chest when his balance falters. His opponent stumbles backward in a daze. Sam lands a good, solid punch to the man’s jaw. He drops like a stone onto wet earth below.

Sam pants, bracing his hands on his knees. He grunts in annoyance when he sees several of his cargo containers scattered this way and that, bands yellowed from damage.

“Fucking MULEs,” he mutters as he gathers them.

Cargo firmly reattached, Sam continues forward. It’s not long before he spots it: a MULE truck, parked just before the treeline. His heart _thuds_ in his chest. _Are there more?_ Destroyed, rusty cargo lies in the bed, but he doesn’t see any other humans nearby. He cautiously prompts the _Odradek_ to scan; it doesn’t pick anything up, either.

A lucky break.

Just in time. His boots are about done for, and the sonofabitch left the keys dangling from the ignition. Sam smirks crookedly and slings his cargo into the passenger’s seat. There’s still adrenaline rushing through his veins when he cranks the ignition…

…and then he feels it again. That deep itch, but it’s gotten louder. _Itchier._

Not until it pools in his middle does he begin to recognize the sensation, and his cheeks flush hot. Even though no one is around to see him, he’s acutely aware of the Bridges cuffs around his right wrist, monitoring, watching – and the BB dormant against his chest. He swallows thickly. That _itch_ he’s been feeling for the past several days…it’s…arousal.

Sex is typically the furthest thing from his mind, so he supposes the desire manifested as unnamed anxiety. He does struggle often with feelings of worry and general unease, so he was quick to write it off.

Now, feet resting, senses heightened from the combat, with the truck rumbling pleasantly underneath him, Sam can’t dismiss it. His heart rate picks up, and he shrugs, rolling his head back in an attempt to brush away the sensations.

“C’mon,” he mutters to himself, “let’s roll.” He puts the vehicle in gear and heads out.

Sam believes he has a reasonably healthy sex drive. As healthy as one can in this world, especially coupled with his personal issues. Not that he knows much about life before the Death Stranding, but he knows America was much safer. Or at least, it had the appearance of being safer. Some files he’s read about life before suggest the modern _utopia_ was not so great, taking into account corrupt power structures, police forces, and civilian violence, among other things. He doesn’t think he’d be so happy in that America. That was a crowded world, a bustling, loud world. He enjoys his runs across open grasslands, through mountains and across streams. Despite his encounters with villains and monsters, Sam finds the life of a porter peaceful. He likes his job. Likes trekking across the country with just his BB and his deliveries.

Even in this “scary” world, he’s found occasion to be…interested. It’s rare, and unmentionably complicated, so he prefers to focus on work. It’s what he’s good at. He doesn’t exactly fancy physical contact, which has made past encounters _interesting_. To say the least. Touch contributes to those wheals, the rashes that sometimes break out on his flesh in response to stress.

Despite his unique issues, he could probably fish from his memory someone he’s interested in. He has to admit, despite his initial reactions to her, he doesn’t hate the idea of being with Fragile. She takes the job as seriously as him, and she’s pretty. Gorgeous. Her blonde hair silky and shiny, plush lips— _no_ , he has to put her out of his mind. Thinking about the attractive courier only worsens his current predicament. He shifts in his seat, pressing harder against the gas pedal and focusing on the road.

It’s the first time he’s thought about her since, well, since their last encounter. She popped up in his room and stood close. Too close. Close enough to make his skin crawl, prickly pins and needles on his arms and legs.

“Cut it out,” he tells himself. Recalling the way Fragile sauntered toward him, driving him backward until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell, the way she stood over him, looking down with gorgeous blue eyes…it contributes to a persistent bulge at the front of his pants. A bulge he tries to will away by gripping the steering wheel and purposely navigating the truck over a painfully-bumpy patch of dirt and rocks. He can imagine her hands drifting idly to his shoulders. She’s so comfortable with touch. She’d make it easy. Make him forget he was afraid. Make him feel safe.

His heart beats faster.

He wasn’t thinking about Fragile when this all started, but there’s no denying he is now. And her face sticks in his mind’s eye like a bright light, like the harsh sun burned into his cornea after a wayward glance at a clear sky.

She may be on his mind now, but she wasn’t the initial catalyst. In truth, she only comes to mind in light of his predicament. An increasingly uncomfortable predicament. What started the physical reaction? _Can going without sex really make you crazy?_ He thinks back on his media consumption: nothing racy, mostly music albums from the old world, video game archives, action figures, benign stuff. The most suggestive thing in his data collection is an action figure of a girl from some game. Even that shouldn’t be enough to get his proverbial motor going, especially not the way it is now. Someone told him recently it’s becoming more and more common for people not to engage in intimate relationships, too. So if he’s experiencing this as a result of abstinence, it stands to reason other people are, too. Or maybe he’s been thinking of the blonde more than he realizes.

_Nah_ , he decides, _that can’t be it._

With a start, Sam slams on the brakes. The fender halts inches before a huge boulder. His wandering thoughts nearly caused a crash. His hands shake when he pulls them from the wheel. In fact, his whole body feels weak. Trembling legs barely pull him from the vehicle, which he leans against a long moment. It feels like he’s been running. Maybe it’s his massive consumption of taurine, maybe it’s the persistent mystery boner, but he needs to find a place to rest. He weakly pulls up the display on his cufflinks and plots a route to the nearest distribution center. It’s not far, and with the truck he’ll get there in no time. If he can focus long enough to, oh, arrive without smashing into something.

Relief washes over Sam when he spots pavement. _Safety_. An overhead speaker _ding_ s in greeting, rattling off his credentials and welcoming him to the distro center. The dock won’t accept his hijacked vehicle, so he parks it outside and books it for his private room without bothering to check in at the terminal. The fewer things he touches, the better his chances of not facing human interaction. He’d be mortified if any Bridges crew saw him in his current state. He’s distantly aware of the cufflinks sending his biometric data over the network, but he holds out hope that his vitals would be interpreted as _high danger_ rather than _inappropriate arousal_.

_“Good morning, Sam.”_

Sam doesn’t remember passing out on the bed. He rarely does. No dreams come.

_“Blood collection complete. Thank you for your generosity.”_

When he wakes, his things are neatly organized in their respective lockers. BB rests peacefully, connected to the station beside his suit.

And Sam…well, Sam’s body hasn’t given out hope for intimacy, to put it delicately. His cock presses against the front of the gray Bridges pants. It’s normal to awake with some… _stiffness_ down there, but not like this. Sam tries to adjust without being lewd, but everything in that general vicinity _aches_. Even his thighs are starting to burn, like if he doesn’t do something about this _problem_ he’s going to have a big issue. The thought is ridiculous. Blue balls aren’t a real thing.

… _Right?_

He decides he’s put it off as long as he reasonably can. Sam is wary of the security measures in his room, knows he’s being recorded, and isn’t particularly fond of the idea of…tending to himself…in said room. The shower is his best bet. Even with the privacy screen, someone could probably check in on him and tell what’s going on, and he’s still not sure which Bridges members exactly have access to live or archived feeds. His modesty, though, is overridden by his desire for relief.

So Sam strips off his shirt first, laying it neatly on the bed. He takes off his socks and kicks them away, and then, with a sigh, his pants and boxer-briefs.

He doesn’t think Heartman is keeping tabs on him _right this second_ , but still Sam wastes no time hopping into the shower and engaging the water. It’s never quite warm enough at the Bridges facilities. Like a tease at an actual hot shower. Still, he can’t complain – it’s hot water at least, which is a luxury in itself. Sam takes his time, lathering soap into his hair, over his tired shoulders, under his arms, carefully avoiding the angry red marks on his shoulders as he scrubs at echoes of handprints all over his body until it’s washed clean of his travels. Once satisfied there’s nothing left to wash, Sam leans his forearm against the cool tile of the shower, letting the water run down his hair and over his back.

For a moment, he practically glares at himself, confused annoyance at his proud, flushed manhood, one part of him that’s thankfully not scarred, or discolored by creatures from the other side. It’s been a long time since he’s touched himself for pleasure, and he breathes a quiet huff of relief when he finally wraps his hand around his aching cock. The pressure is immensely gratifying, hands warm and slick from the water. Sam presses his mouth to his arm, leaning against it and letting his eyes flutter closed as he flicks his wrist. Needy burning dissipates slowly into mounting pleasure as he strokes himself quietly in the shower. Sam comes too soon, with a muffled grunt as some of the tension ebbs away.

He stands in the water awhile longer, letting it wash away evidence of what he’s just done. But something is not quite right. A warm tingle still sits low in his belly, the hint of a burn. Maybe once wasn’t enough. It has, after all, been a long time. A very long time.

Sam doesn’t think he’s quite ready to go again, but a glance at his half-hard dick suggests otherwise. He swallows and glances behind him; the comms never sounded, there’s nobody coming in, and surely it’s not suspicious to spend just a few minutes longer here. BB is still sleeping. Thankfully, the water hasn’t cooled in the slightest, still teasingly warm.

It only takes a few strokes to bring him back to full hardness. He’s a bit sensitive from his first orgasm, but the pleasure of touching himself quickly supersedes any discomfort. He doesn’t come right away this time, the build slower and deeper. It feels like he’s slowly winding up a coil inside of himself. He can’t remember the last time he felt physically this good, even though it’s his own big, calloused hands touching himself. It would be a lot nicer if it was…

…smaller hands…

…softer hands…

Her face crosses his mind again, and his heart stutters in his chest as his pique hits and rips a small, surprised cry from him. Sam covers his mouth with his left hand to muffle any more embarrassing – potentially alerting – sounds, and he lets his hips jerk, wringing the last of his second orgasm out.

His breath is shaky when he floats back down. “Shit.” The weight of it…of Fragile’s face being what sent him over the edge…he can’t dwell right now. He quickly dispenses more soap and washes his hands in the warm overhead stream, then flicks the water off and engages the air dryer.

He’s still weak in the knees when he pulls clean clothes on. He regroups and chugs a couple of Monsters, grabs his things, and heads back up to check in at the terminal.

***

The rest of the day doesn’t go much better. Relief from his solo tryst is short-lived, and soon Sam is squirming in the driver’s seat of his stolen MULE truck.

He bites the inside of his cheek and tries desperately to shift his focus. The delivery ahead is going to be tricky; he’s carrying a lot of heavy stuff, and he has to make it across a few streams and a huge river. He’s not sure how he’s going to get the truck across, and he isn’t confident he can safely carry needed materials the rest of the way on his back. None of his cargo is particularly delicate, but he doesn’t care to deliver things with any dents or holes in them. He’s certain he’d fall with such heavy containers on-hand – they were hard enough to carry up the ramp to the truck bed – and he still doesn’t trust his knees not to buckle.

It’s less than two hours before the burning settles back into his thighs and belly. Thankfully his dick isn’t as pushy as before, but the ache feels bigger, deeper. It’s spread up to his chest, his fingers, his toes, like standing under a pole in a thunderstorm. Hell, maybe there really is something wrong with him. Maybe that last MULE electrocution did a number on his head. The thought makes him snort in amusement.

Even during his adolescent years, Sam’s never felt…like _this_. _Insatiably horny_. And the steady rumble of the truck underneath him is stimulating, just enough to keep the issue present in his mind, has him shifting in his seat and flexing his fingers against the wheel.

Sam figures he will take the truck as far as it will go. The sky looks ominous, and any timefall will likely do this piece of junk in. He just hopes it can cover the bulk of the journey. If it gets stuck in the river, maybe he can carry its contents a few at a time up the last stretch of hill.

That will do for a backup plan. Now if he could just keep his mind focused on work, it should be a piece of cake.

The truck makes it all the way to the compound, thankfully, and Sam carries the containers in two at a time, setting them all by the console before ringing the proverbial doorbell. The hologram appearing before him isn’t the man he usually sees here; he’s taller, with broader shoulders and a strong jaw. Stunning blue eyes. Sam doesn’t recognize him, but the man greets him with a pearly smile and a friendly, deep voice. Says the other guy has been under the weather, and he’s here helping him recover. Sam doesn’t doubt it as he hears coughing in the background of the transmission, and a, “Sorry, Sam!” shortly after.

“S’all good,” Sam replies. He does his best to keep his eyes trained on the stranger’s face and not let them wander, over his strong arms, or thick legs. Sam is a strong man, but this guy is huge. Could probably carry Sam in one arm. He imagines what those arms might look like under the gear and sweater. It doesn’t take long for him to imagine _other things_.

He realizes his mistake moments too late and mutters a hasty goodbye, cheeks flushing as he rushes out of the compound, revs up the truck, and drives away. His heart hammers against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears. Perhaps too quickly, the truck speeds off the lot and back into the wilderness. The man from the hologram lingers in his mind. He doesn’t know him at all, but at the moment he doesn’t hate the idea of letting him touch him. That alone speaks volumes about his current state. The abandonment of worry scares him. Sam doesn’t realize at first he’s driven off-course, following the river upstream. Not until his jacket hood _beeps_ and rises over his head to protect him from the sudden downpour. The sharp scent of Chiralium fills the air. It stings.

_Shit_. He comes to a halt and checks the cufflinks, realizing how far off track he’s wandered. It will take forever to get back to the distro center from here. Worse, the truck begins to spark as it rusts. It’s not the first MULE truck he’s stolen, so he knows the timefall knocks these things out quick.

When it sputters and grinds to a stop, Sam lugs his equipment out of the seat and books it, trying his best not to slip on the muddy ground.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself. _So easily distracted_. Thankfully he hasn’t ventured far outside the network, and it’s not too much of a challenge to travel along the bank. Unfortunately, sticking to the river means being out in the open, and the ladders and PCC unit he brought along are looking bad. The air chills. Sam stifles a gasp as goosebumps rise all over his body. It’s incredible that, no matter how many times he feels it, that _timefall chill_ still plants dread deep inside him.

BB makes a sound, and Sam’s blood runs cold. The _Odradek_ scanner pops out and starts beeping, BB cooing as the pod goes black. Sam immediately crouches down, glancing up at the scanner for direction. Ghastly black strands appear in the distance. When did he wander into BT territory? He doesn’t remember there being any over here. He mentally kicks himself for being so stupid. He let his weird, random desire creep into logical thought and wound up way off-course, in a dangerous area with no weapons.

_Pop! Pop pop pop—_

He spots dark handprints in the mud too late. Tarry figures rise from the earth, cries from beyond filling the air as a black river swells all around him. BB starts to wail, and Sam shouts as the figures grope at his legs, dragging him painfully downward with all their might. He grits his teeth and cries out, fighting their pull with everything he has. He could smack himself for being such a dumbass. Now he’s going to die, and it’s gonna hurt, and what if BB doesn’t come back with him this time?

That panic mixes with the terror clutching him, hands wrapping around his ankles, his calves, his thighs. They dig in and squeeze too hard. Pain in every touch. _Grabbing. Pulling._ Sam cries out, trying to pry their clutches from his legs. It’s like every hand, every finger, is a needle driving into his flesh and piercing down to bone. He dives toward the nearest boulder, clutching and scrabbling, kicking at the Beached Things in a desperate effort to free himself.

He succeeds.

Only a moment to breathe, he knows, because more creatures will come now that they know he’s here. He navigates the tarry waves until he spots grass, and he bolts. Icy fingers of panic clutch his throat. The sounds of the spirits fade into the distance, but it’s still pouring and he can’t know if he’s safe while BB is wailing in terror. The scanner blinks orange and continues to spin. He weakly detaches the pod. Timefall bounces off the surface; the baby inside has gone red in the face, screaming and maybe as afraid as he is. He gently bounces it, whispering assurances in a shaky voice.

“There, there,” he says. “It’s okay. You’re alright.” He hopes he’s right. Doesn’t see any immediate danger. After further consolation, the BB eventually trades crying for laughter, smiling and happy about seeing Sam’s face.

He relaxes a little and replaces the pod on his suit, hooks it back up. As he feared, there are still BTs around, but they’re a bit more scattered now. He has room to move.

Creeping along the open land, Sam breathes as quietly as he can. His thighs ache from the effort, keeping his footsteps even and slow. His shoulders start to cramp up, and he carefully weaves to and fro, following BB’s direction to avoid the spectres until he spots the sun through the clouds.

It feels like he tiptoes through the rain for an eternity, until the Chiralium levels fall and BB waves _goodbye_ to those beyond the veil. Safety.

At least, as safe as can be in his condition. His feet ache. He’s exhausted. He wants to lie down on the muddy grass and crash out but knows from experience what a bad idea sleeping in a strange place is.

Instead, he chugs the tangy energy drink from his canteen and treks onward. The concoction probably hardly works anymore, what with how much he guzzles on a daily basis, but it does lift his mood a little and give him a boost. At least he can use the opportunity to grab a few wayward deliveries. He carries on, silently berating himself. For the moment, his predicament has faded into the background, pushed away by the terror of being grabbed, squeezed, pulled…though that slight _buzz_ still lingers under his skin.

Sam does check in when he returns to the distro center. He delivers what he can and stores the rest, doesn’t like passing work on to others when it’s something he can easily do after a good night’s sleep.

Sleep sounds all-too-heavenly.

Sam passes out mere moments after hitting the mattress.

“ _Good morning, Sam.”_

He sits up, eyes bleary.

_“Blood collection complete.”_

His limbs feel heavy and full, like he’s made of lead.

_“Thank you for your generosity.”_

He snags a can from the bedside table and downs its contents, wincing from the burn of carbonation in his throat. _Just once, wouldn’t mind if Bridges left a couple of water bottles,_ he thinks bitterly. He tosses the can into the trash with a deep sigh, then blinks as he realizes just how badly he needs a shower. The run yesterday left him coated in a layer of sweat, grime, and tar.

When he glances at the shower, though, it happens again. The stirring down south, warmth in his belly spreading low.

“Sam!” Deadman’s voice ringing over the intercom startles him. Sam doesn’t respond, knows Deadman will say his piece without prompting. And he does. “I’m checking up on your BB today, I hope you don’t mind. I’ll buzz you when it’s ready to bring back down to your room.”

Sam grunts an acknowledgement, only then realizing the dock on the wall is vacant. The intercom clicks off. He doesn’t mind the delay, he supposes, could use the incentive to move more slowly this morning. Still, he doesn’t plan on indulging in whatever game his body wants to play. “Maybe there’s somethin’ in the water,” he muses, shrugging out of his clothes. He flips just the cold water on this time – the last time was his _last time_. He’s determined to calm himself down and get on with the day. As soon as Deadman’s done with the kid, he’s got deliveries to make.

The cold water does little to fight his growing erection. In fact, its sting on his skin almost…makes it worse. He frowns.

“That can’t be right.”

He takes a deep breath and plunges his head into the stream. His pores close into tight, painful, prickly goosebumps. His body screams at him to move out of the cold water. Even when his teeth start chattering, though, Sam stays under. He’s determined to kill whatever twinge of arousal plagues him.

Only one problem: it’s not working.

Shivering, fingers and toes burning and going numb, his cock manages to stand erect, not deterred in the slightest.

“What the fuck,” he grumbles.

After another minute, Sam can’t take it anymore. He heats up the water in an attempt to wash the chill away. The sudden change in temperature makes him whimper, and he gives in, stroking himself fervently until he comes with a soft cry.

The orgasm offers only a moment’s relief. The burning returns tenfold, like some sick joke, and Sam growls, “Come on!”

Still too sensitive, he brings himself over the edge again. Again, his relief is short-lived.

After a third, mostly-dry orgasm, Sam breathes, “How is ’at even possible?” He doesn’t know much about sex anatomy, but he’s pretty sure trying again wouldn’t… _yield_ much. He knows at least that women are capable of having multiple orgasms like this, but he’s never heard of it being common in men. Besides, he’s too tired to try again, though part of him is absolutely ready for another round.

He turns off the water and lets the shower dry him off. Steps out. Collapses on the bed, not bothering to dress. Security be damned. He can lie naked in his private room, and anyone who judges him can fuck right off. He’s beyond caring.

His testicles ache, cock flush with his stomach, pink and painfully hard. He doesn’t know what else to do for himself. Usually getting off makes this problem go away. Like, for a long time. He’s only managed to get off two, maybe three times in a row once or twice in the past – and never, _never_ more than that…save for yesterday and today.

He slings an arm over his eyes and tries not to cry. This is ridiculous. How does he feel _more_ aroused than before? Three fucking orgasms should have done the trick, or at least knocked his libido down several big notches. For hours. Days. Not made him feel…like this.

Sam scrubs both hands over his face and sits up. He tries to dress but finds pants far too constricting, both with and without underwear.

Fine, he decides. He’ll wait it out. He can check emails. All he can think to do is wrap the thin, navy-blue blanket around his waist, grabbing another Monster can as he steps over to the console. He’s got lots of messages. Another request for a pizza run, which makes his lips twitch just shy of a smile. Something about a Chiralium spike. There’s plenty more, but he only manages to read through about two and a half before he can’t focus anymore. At least part of it is physical, but a lot of it is mental. He can’t stop wondering what’s wrong with him. Did he touch something? He’s never heard of this happening to anyone else before – but then, he doesn’t suppose anyone would likely record if they went into sudden, inexplicable _heat_ , or whatever.

The blanket feels rough around his waist. He finds himself reading the same line of text over and over, not really absorbing the information before him.

He sighs in resignation and closes out the email screen. He’ll have to get back to the emails later. He simply can’t focus.

Lying slowly on the bed, Sam maneuvers the blanket to lie loosely across his waist. He bends his knees so the erection doesn’t make a tent – and to keep it from rubbing his sensitive dick.

For a few minutes he remains still, debating whether or not he should try for another one. He’s getting sore. It’s ridiculous to even consider, though which facet he’s more perturbed by, he’s not sure. Is it the fact he’s considering _trying_ for number four? That he’s even concerned about jerking off in his own room? He can’t be the only one who masturbates on base. It’s got to be common. He remembers the correspondence telling him that a lot of people choose solitude lifestyles these days, sans romantic or sexual partners. Maybe this newfound abstinence is forcing evolution’s hand, putting humans into heat the way a wild animal might in the old days. It would be funny if Sam wasn’t seriously considering it, wondering what could make him get horny and stay horny for so goddamn long. That would make anyone with an active sex drive more likely to masturbate, right?

Still, the lack of privacy makes him nervous. He could preserve some modesty with the blanket, but any adult looking in would know. And what if it’s not as common as he thinks? Maybe he’s some heathen, driven to rutting against his own hand. Some kind of animal. What kind of maniac desires sexual release but can’t stand being touched by another human?

As if it knows what he’s considering, his cock twitches against his belly. Sam closes his eyes. He may as well stop fighting and ride it out.

“Here we go,” he mutters. He hisses when he grips himself. It’s been long enough that it mostly just feels good again. His eyes flutter closed.

He goes slower this time, some urgency lost now that he’s resigned to…whatever this is. He drags his fist slowly up the length; it’s a bit more difficult now that he’s out of the shower, but he knows his body well enough and applies just enough pressure. His breath hitches when thumb and forefinger catch the head, and he drags his palm across it before pumping back down.

In no time, his breath is ragged, coming in short pants as the coil inside tightens again. He jerks himself a little faster. He can see the edge but can’t quite reach it. Frustrating that his body has begged him to do this and now refuses to reach the finish line.

Sam’s eyes flutter shut. He focuses on the sensation; his hand feels rougher now that he’s not under running water – and now that he’s jacked off so many consecutive times. Definitely a man’s hand. He swallows dryly, and the distant thought of the large man at the compound crosses his mind. He had big hands, bigger even than Sam’s. It stokes the fire, but it’s not near enough to take him over. It just makes the need more persistent. He doesn’t know this man well enough, can’t imagine his voice whispering in his ear, doesn’t know the touch of his hand.

In fact, the last person who touched him was her. Fragile.

He’d torn away from her then, terrified of the uninvited contact, but now he can’t stop thinking about her firm grip, gloved hands wrapped around his wrist. Small, strong hands, wrapping around him. Gliding along his length where he touches himself. Her voice in his ear, purring, “ _Hungry, Sam?”_

He covers his mouth when he tips over the edge, whimpering in place of moaning, scrunching his eyes closed. He barely ejaculates, two tiny spurts dribbling onto his hand as he works himself through the last waves. He can’t complain about that, thankful not to turn in the extra laundry just yet.

Weakly, Sam manages to get to his feet, blanket falling in a heap to the bed. His legs are jelly, and his arms aren’t much better as he washes his hands and splashes cold water onto his face.

To his dismay, it’s still not over. The aching burn persists. Sam leans his elbows on the sink and hangs his head. He’s exhausted.

“Sam?”

His heart leaps to his throat. When his head jerks up, he catches a reflection in the mirror – _her_ reflection. His face goes beet red and he snatches the blanket. “Fragile!”

She’s already covered her eyes, trying and failing to hide a grin. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Sam fumbles with shaky hands to wrap the blanket around his naked body, tucking it under his arms. “Wh-ah, why would I not? Be alright?”

“Well the way you called my name, I assumed you…maybe I was mistaken.”

Sam prays for the ground to open up and swallow him. Maybe a BT will show up and blow the city to smithereens, or crush it into the Earth’s crust. “I just—I didn’t—”

She sneaks a peek at him and lowers her hand, one eyebrow raised. “I didn’t mean to just barge in,” she says, tone sincere. “I was only concerned about you.”

Sam cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Thanks.” Maybe if he just dies of shame he can stay on the beach for a thousand years or so, until he forgets about this humiliation. Is it too much to hope she didn’t piece two-and-two together?

She doesn’t leave after his assurances, either, instead looking around his room with interest. “I like what you’ve done with the place.” Obvious sarcasm; he hasn’t done anything except toss dirty clothes on the floor.

“Is there, uh,” he shrugs, standing awkwardly by the sink with the blanket around his body. “Anything you need, or…?”

She glances into his trash can, raises one eyebrow, and reaches in to pull out an empty can. “‘Monster’ energy?”

He shrugs. “What?” He tries not to sound defensive.

“Well,” she laughs, turning the can around to read the label. “You’ve had quite a lot of these.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that, and he’s searching for a reply when Fragile’s eyes go wide.

“Niacin?” she says.

“It’s a b-vitamin,” he explains. He doesn’t appreciate her judgment.

“I know, B3,” she says. “How many of these have you been drinking?”

“One or two a day,” he says, then adds in a mutter, “not that it’s any of your business.”

Fragile looks up at him, really looking now. Her eyes ghost over his arms and bare shoulders and the inky handprints there. Though her gaze bares no judgment, he folds in on himself, eyes dropping.

Fragile seems to notice for the first time the flush that’s spread from his cheeks down his neck and shoulders. She tosses the can back into the bin.

“So, several dozen milligrams of B3 a day?”

Still feeling scrutinized, Sam crosses his arms and pulls the blanket closer. “So?”

Her eyes wander farther down his body, and to his horror Sam realizes that Mr. Happy never left the party. His hands fly down, sacrificing some of the torso coverage for superior disguise of his erection. “You—you should go,” he sputters. That sudden death would be _real nice_ now.

“Sorry,” Fragile finally says, eyes snapping up to meet his. Her cheeks dust pink, but she doesn’t look humiliated - as he certainly does. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” She turns, to return his privacy, to leave, but pauses and says, “I’ve been there.”

Sam frowns. He doesn’t want to give her a reason to stay any longer, but he’s suddenly intrigued. “Been where?”

“It’s a common chemical component. Found naturally in a lot of foods we eat – and beverages we consume. Doesn’t affect most people beyond a little boost of energy. But then, you and I aren’t _most people_ , are we.”

“What do you mean you’ve ‘been here’?” He still isn’t catching her meaning. Rather, he’s being pointedly obtuse, because he wants to make absolutely sure he’s understanding correctly. She can’t mean what he thinks she means.

“For people with DOOMs, the buildup is a little…different.” She turns to face him again, but keeps her distance this time, allowing him space. Eyes purposefully locked on his. “Let me guess, started with a couple of sleepless nights, right? So you lean on energy supplements, figuring it will get better after a few days. But a few days come and go, and you just feel more and more tired. So you load up on energy drinks. Well,” she shrugs, “for me it was pills. But they had a lot of the same ingredients.” She smiles, and when she does Sam’s heart hammers in his chest. She has such a pretty smile, and he only now realizes she doesn’t smile often. But then, neither does he.

He’s torn between wishing she would step closer and wanting her as far away as possible.

“I was on a bike,” she continues. “The first time it…happened. I almost crashed!” She still doesn’t move, maintaining eye contact that Sam’s finding increasingly difficult to reciprocate. “From then on, it only got worse. Every time I _indulged_ it got a little stronger, a little harder to, you know, until…well, I was a mess.”

Sam’s cheeks and ears burn. He thinks he understands, and the thought of Fragile, hiding out under ledges and secreting away in Fragile Express camps, doing what he just did, touching herself, _indulging_ …

His nethers stir anew, but this time it’s different. It’s a stronger, more blinding kind of arousal. He casts his eyes back to the floor, fiddling with the blanket under his fingers and trying not to sway.

“I didn’t make the connection at first,” she says. “It wasn’t until the third time it happened that I realized it was my supplements causing it.”

When he finally speaks, his voice cracks. “How did you manage?”

“Well, the last time it happened, I got help from a friend.”

“Good friend.” Sam laughs, nervous. His disingenuous smile quickly fades. “Sorry you saw me…like this. I didn’t mean—if I said your name, it was only—”

“It’s alright.” Fragile shrugs. “I can’t say I’m innocent. I just had the advantage of not being connected to the network when it happened. No one to tattle on me.”

Sam keeps his eyes downcast. He has no reply. Despite her admission, he’s humiliated at being ‘caught’ masturbating with her on his mind, but annoyingly that’s not enough to douse the fire.

“I can be a good friend,” she says, quietly.

Sam does look up then, clutching the blanket in front of him. His cock jumps, thankfully well-hidden by now but clearly excited by the prospect. Intellectually, her offer stirs conflicting desires.

“I know you don’t like to be touched,” she concedes.

When Sam doesn’t reply right away, she nods and turns to go.

One step. Two.

Sam’s heart thuds in his chest. His hands tremble. He’s so tired, but the relentless burning inside both wears him down and drives him crazy. He can’t keep up the pace he’s had this morning. Fragile raises her umbrella.

“Wait,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Fragile stops then and glances at him over her shoulder. Dare he think she looks hopeful?

Sam can hardly believe the words that come out of his mouth, voice weak and breathy. “I could…use a friend.”

Her shoulders relax, and Fragile says, “I’m always here for you.”

Those simple words evoke something else, stir something emotional in him. It’s been much, much too long since someone said that to him…and the last person who did, he’s currently searching for. Tears well in his eyes, and Fragile’s giddy smile fades.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I won’t do anything you don’t want to. I can just be nearby, if that helps. Or—”

“S’not that,” Sam chokes out, fighting the quiver in his jaw.

Fragile sits on the bed and pats the spot next to her. Thankfully she doesn’t press the issue. It takes strength for him to accept the invitation, knuckles white around the blanket. He might just rattle out of his skin before she gets the chance to test his limits. He’s still not even sure he can let her touch him, and the consideration alone causes his pulse to quicken.

Fragile holds out a gloved hand. She doesn’t touch him, just offers her hand, letting him make the rules. Her body is like a wall of heat beside him, pulsing toward him in waves. His skin pricks, muscles tensing at their proximity.

Sam untangles his fist from the bedding. He hesitates, staring longingly at the outstretched appendage. He wants to, he does, but…what’s been on her gloves? Where has she been? What – or _who_ – has she touched today? What if he does it wrong, squeezes, hurts her like…

…like they’ve all hurt him? He feels the phantoms even now, groping and clawing and dragging him into the depths. Their hands hover in the air between them, inches but miles apart. He doesn’t know if he can cross that distance.

But _oh,_ he wants to.

Sam takes a deep breath. He looks away for a moment, making a fist and exhaling slowly. When he looks back, she wears an expression of undying patience. He closes his eyes and places his hand in hers.

This is okay.

Nothing bad happens when their fingers meet. With an unexpected sigh of relief, he opens his eyes, shoulder and chest muscles untangling themselves from his nerves. She lifts the hand to her face and places a tender kiss on his fingers. Her lips are warm, and soft, and Sam feels much of his apprehension melt away. It’s okay because it’s _her;_ it’s Fragile. She isn’t yanking or pulling or dragging. Not squeezing. Not hurting. Tingles ripple out from their point of contact. It’s not stressful or itchy, like touch so often is. He doesn’t feel the painful pinpricks, the burning or stinging or bruising he expects. The warmth in his belly rises to his chest.

“Let me take care of you,” she whispers, her breath ghosting over his knuckles.

Sam nods dumbly. Fragile holds her other hand out expectantly, and Sam doesn’t hesitate this time.

“If it’s too much, just say stop, and I’ll stop,” she tells him.

He believes her. His voice is surprisingly weak. “I will.”

Fragile kneels on the floor by his knees and releases his hands. He’s lost for a moment, considering where to put them, but he settles them onto the bed, gripping its edge. She watches his expression as she reaches toward his thighs, gloves brushing over blanket. He can’t tear his eyes away. Even through two layers of fabric, her touch is fire that doesn’t burn, pleasantly lighting his nerves. With a slow, fluid motion, she pulls the blanket from his lap. The last of his modesty is left at the wayside, and Sam finally looks away, watching his hand on the edge of the bed. He can’t bring himself to look down – at her or his naked body. And he can’t hide his embarrassed flush. Just as smoothly, her hands are back on his legs. Rather than the branding sear he expects, the touch is gentle. It makes his heart thud and his hands tremble, but the one thing it doesn’t do is hurt. She caresses his inner thighs, ticklish but lovely. He shivers, her glorious, pleasurable touch warring with his own desire to cover his body, to run away and hide and never look at her face again.

“Sam,” Fragile says, softly.

He only grunts in response. He’s scared to speak, that his voice might break. That he might cry, or make a lewd sound, and he’s not sure which would be more embarrassing.

“You’re gorgeous.”

He resists the urge to cover his face, instead finally meeting her gaze. She traces the marks on his thighs, the scars and the impressions. His ghosts. She looks him over, not with pity or disgust but quiet admiration.

Gently pushing his knees apart, she nestles between them and settles in a more comfortable position. Sam feels extra exposed like this, her hands on his legs, face nearly level with all of his most intimate parts. But he trusts her. There’s no judgment in her sweet expression. She smiles at his wide eyes and rosy cheeks. She’s tentative at first, ghosts of touches, testing what’s okay and comfortable for him. Sam’s heart jackrabbits as a single gloved finger traces the length of his shaft, making a slow, torturous circle around the head. His breathing stutters, cock gladly accepting and leaning into the attention. He whimpers softly, reminding himself to breathe. It doesn’t help that Fragile looks so damn pleased with herself as she does it again and again. Sam’s hands grip the mattress feverishly, and he sucks his lip between his teeth, biting back pleas for, _More, just a little more._

After what is surely an eternity passes, Fragile leans in to take his flushed cock into her right hand.

She moves slower than he would, but it feels incredible and Sam’s jaw drops, fingers curling into the mattress.

He loses the battle with his voice. “ _Fuck._ ”

It’s so much better than he could have imagined. His foggy, tired fantasies have nothing on this. A beautiful woman kneeling before him, caring for him, using gentle touches and even gentler words. Reassurances and promises tumble softly from her lips as one hand caresses his thigh and the other grips his cock, wrist twisting and pumping _just right_. It’s only a minute or two before his thighs are trembling, hips moving in a hesitant rhythm as he chases the inevitable release. He lifts one hand off the bed, poised to grab her wrist. He still finds himself frozen, struggling to reach out and touch her in return.

“Fragile,” he breathes. “I’m—”

“It’s okay,” she replies, and when she says it she picks up the pace. Sam’s muscles tighten. His knees press into her shoulders.

“I’ll help you finish.”

His poised hand balls into a fist, and he tries to bite back any noises, but when white hot pleasure courses through him his jaw drops and a low moan rips out of him from somewhere deep within, tapering off with a whine.

Fragile nurses him through, stroking until Sam does whimper, too sensitive, and the overload finally drives him to put his hand on her arm. Only then does she stop, looking up with a smirk as Sam gasps for lost breath.

“You’ll feel better for a little while,” she assures him, releasing his flagging erection and reaching for the discarded blanket. “Why don’t you have some water?”

His mouth is dry, so he agrees with a nod and a mutter. Fragile generously helps him cover himself and brings him something to drink. Weak hands hold the glass as he sips.

He can barely bring himself to look at her. “Thanks,” he says.

“I’d say ‘my pleasure,’ but…a little too on the nose?”

Sam smiles genuinely for the first time in a long while.

“Take a nap if you need to,” she suggests. “Might do you some good.”

***

Sam wakes in a cold sweat, gasping as he sits up in a disoriented tizzy. It takes a moment for his surroundings to clear: private room, Bridges distro center. He shakily brushes damp hair from his face. His whole body feels like it’s on fire.

“You’re safe,” says Fragile, lying on the far side of his cot. She’s dressed down now, black suit replaced with a loose white tank and…she’s actually not wearing pants, just a pair of plain, white, cotton underwear. For the first time, he sees what she hides under all that leather. Her legs, her arms, even her chest and hands, all weathered. He can’t believe she trusts him like this, lets him see the evidence of what she considers her greatest failure.

She’s beautiful. This suddenly feels much too intimate, too close. She’s not just a “good friend” helping him with a problem. She has opened up to him, is exposing her most vulnerable self.

And he’s still naked. Sam clutches his blanket. To his dismay, it feels sticky. _No way._ He must have done it in his sleep. Heat rises to his cheeks; he focuses his attention on Fragile. “You’re still here.”

“You still need my help.”

She’s right. He can feel the belly of the fire coalescing in his middle, burning desire hanging over him like a heavy cloud. And he’s in no condition to jerk off anymore. His hands feel numb, and they tremble.

Fragile doesn’t waste any time, crawling to his side and reaching under the blanket to fondle him. Her hands are bare now, and they’re so warm they almost sting. Sam doesn’t hold anything back this time; he cries out, hunching forward as orgasm rams him like a truck almost immediately. He sobs as he comes back down, even lets her pull him into a loose embrace.

She whispers encouragement into his ear, telling him she’s here, she’s going to help him, he’s going to feel so good when it’s over. It’s more than he can bear. The arousal is one thing, frustrating but natural, just another strange, biological hurdle to overcome.

But this…tenderness, closeness to another human, it makes his heart ache and he finally caves, crying on her shoulder.

Her hand tangles into his hair, the contact every bit as warm and sweet as it should be. Sam melts and lets her comfort him. Her whispers soon turn into soft kisses, first to the side of his face, then peppered down his neck until she gently pulls him away to kiss at his throat. Sam’s whimpers fade into little gasps and pants. He grips her shirt, warily avoiding skin, eyes fluttering as she bathes him with affectionate touches.

She leans forward, pushing him slowly onto his back before he realizes what’s happening. Momentary panic rises to his throat as her body weights his down into the mattress. Trapping him. She takes a moment. Pauses. Withdraws to look at him.

“Is this alright?”

As she stares down at him, Sam realizes he’s worried about nothing. Fragile doesn’t want to hurt him. She’s not trying to force him, or manipulate him. She’s not trying to take anything. She will let him up if he doesn’t want this. Hell, she’s so much smaller than him, she probably couldn’t hold him down if she tried. But all of his insecurities keep him tense, make him worry and question everything, even when it’s otherwise good and pure and genuine.

_It’s more than alright,_ he thinks. In admitting it to himself, he realizes that he doesn’t just want another handjob. He could do that alone in the shower until he drops – or his dick falls off. Too bad he’s not in the mindset to laugh at that. He wants more…he wants _her_. His heart races, a question forming on his tongue, and he licks his lips as she gazes patiently down at him.

“Can I kiss you?” he rasps.

She answers not with words, but by leaning down and meeting his lips. She’s sweet and warm, maybe the best thing he’s ever tasted. When she _hums_ softly into the kiss, buzzing against his mouth, it sends ripples all over him. He wants to feel more of her, to feel her skin on his. He’s never wanted that before, even as the desire wrestles in his mind with the fact that he still can’t put his hands on her. He’s terrified, but that terror fades into the background of his want – no, his _need_.

Sam’s hands find the hem of her shirt. He musters his courage, thumbs tentatively brushing the soft, aged skin on her belly. She shudders at the contact, and her shudder _zings_ to Sam’s dick. He touches her hips with more conviction, breath hitching when she swings a leg over his hips and straddles him.

She breaks the kiss, only to trail more across his face, down his neck and over his collarbone. Every point of contact burns pleasantly. What would normally be painful pins and needles across his skin is muted to a pleasant warmth. When her hot mouth closes over his left nipple, he gasps, hips jerking suddenly. Her tongue flicks over the hardening bud. Sam had no idea he could feel like this, each swipe of the wet muscle making his cock twitch and leak as he pants and moans. He knew, in a peripheral sense, that nipples were an erogenous zone. But he’s never touched his own. He’s never taken the time to make himself feel good like this, masturbation usually a shameful, quick act he performed in secret. This feels indulgent, rich and pleasurable like a rare dessert. She trails wetly off that nipple, which stings in the cold air, and latches on to the other, repeating the process. Knots form low in his belly, tingling warmth spreading across his pelvis. His breathing falters, shallow and quick.

When her teeth gently graze him, Sam sucks in a surprised breath followed by a sharp cry. When the sound of his own pleasure echoes off the carbon walls back to his ears, he suddenly comes, untouched, hot and sticky under the blanket and over his stomach.

It’s a moment before his senses return. He’s gripping Fragile’s shirt feverishly in one hand, her upper arm in the other. She’s halted her attentions, watching his expression with wet, swollen lips and wide eyes. Her face is flushed. When Sam finally breathes again, she steals another kiss. Even as he regains awareness, he keeps his hand on her arm, savoring the contact, letting the fear turn to roiling excitement in his belly.

Her body feels incredible pressed against his. Every curve, every small movement and touch is Heaven. Fragile’s eager lips on his could almost be enough, almost be all he ever needs again.

If only his clueless dick could leave him be for just a few minutes. He can feel it pressing against the damp blanket, the sensation intensified by Fragile’s weight atop it. It’s not long until he’s short of breath yet again. How much longer will this go on? A small part of him worries that she’ll tire of their activities before the curse is lifted, and he’ll be alone again with nothing but his arousal and a cold shower.

But she said she wouldn’t leave him. She said she’d take care of him. And she stayed through his slumber. That has to count for something.

Lost in thought, Sam hardly registers Fragile reaching between them to pull away the blanket. He may have been cold in normal circumstances, but every part of him radiates heat. It doubles when Fragile slowly slides down his body, a trail of kisses in her wake. She shimmies out of his grip, and Sam again struggles deciding where to place his hands, eventually settling them by his sides, fingers in the sheet. She lingers a moment to draw circles around his nipples with delicate fingers. Sam chews his lip, biting back desperate noises. He’s certain she could make him come again just doing that, but he hopes she won’t. The first time was embarrassing enough. Thankfully, Fragile only teases him for a short time before her kisses travel farther south, passing his navel and lingering at his scar. He watches with her with wide eyes. The damaged tissue doesn’t relay much in the way of touch, mostly numb on the lines themselves. But the careful ministrations make him weak, make his heart swell. He knows she understands, doesn’t think he’s ugly or mutilated, because she’s scarred too. Her scars are different, but they give them a _sameness_ that he can’t share with anybody else – and he doesn’t want to.

Her lips touch his hips. Sam huffs, head falling back. Her face is right there, so close to his hard cock he can feel her warmth on it, the brush of her cheek as she kisses all along the sensitive juncture of hip and thigh. His legs tremble in response to the featherlight touches, cock jumping and twitching against his belly. He’s ever so glad he recently showered, even if he’s already made a bit of a mess on himself since then. Fragile continues to nuzzle and kiss the sensitive area until he’s helplessly squirming again.

Sam gasps sharply when a wet heat swipes across his dick. One hand flies up instinctually to cover his mouth, cufflinks _clinking_. He feels more than hears Fragile huff a soft laugh, and then she does it again, licking a stripe up his hardened length. A soft sound that feels awfully akin to a whimper rises from his throat, pitching up when the tip of her tongue wriggles hotly against the glans.

He uncovers his mouth to speak. “Y-you don’t have to—”

Before he can finish the sentence, her mouth envelopes him, velvety soft and burning hot. The beginning of a low moan escapes before he manages to clap a hand over his mouth again. His eyes roll back and flutter closed when he feels her cheeks hollow around him. The barest graze of teeth as she bobs her head in a way that suggests she’s done this before. For a brief moment, flashes of jealousy enter Sam’s thoughts at the prospect of her bestowing this…this _gift_ on anyone else. They don’t get to stay long, however. He tilts his head to look down at her, and it’s the sight of her that nearly tips him over. The fullness of her lips as she sucks, long eyelashes fanned over ivory cheeks.

He’s not going to last, and he indicates such as best he can with a flustered whisper of her name. He grips her shoulders and repeats her name, louder this time. A flush spreads over his cheeks at how ragged and broken the word sounds. He’s not sure if she wants him to come in her mouth, but if she doesn’t stop it’s going to happen one way or another. And he _wants_ to. He does his best to lie still, not wanting to choke her but having little control over the aborted little thrusts of his hips.

And she doesn’t stop.

He tries to get more words out, squirming as she continues with her glorious tongue and beautiful, exquisite mouth. She only meets his hand on her shoulder, gripping it there. Her eyes rise to meet his, and that’s the final push he needs to tumble into ecstasy, head falling back as his hips stutter and he spills his seed into her mouth. He practically goes blind when he feels her throat move like she’s swallowing. His hips twitch and jerk.

Sam is left breathless as the end of his orgasm rolls away. He’s sure now that it must be over. He doesn’t have anything left, strength drained from coming so hard so many times. He’s sure he’d pass out, except the insistent tingling rush in his belly hasn’t lifted, hasn’t faded. It feels stronger now, somehow. Sam could cry. Again.

Before he can dwell too long, thankfully, Fragile’s warm hand spreads over his stomach. She rubs soothing circles as she positions herself at his side on the bed. The hand slides up, ghosting up and over his chest, to cup his cheek. Her thumb brushes over his chin, through the coarse scruff there. He sighs. Sore tension eases out of his neck and shoulders. It still feels surreal, like she can’t possibly be here, be nurturing him like this.

“I see you’re ready for another round,” she says softly.

Sam’s face goes red. “How many times did you…?” he turns his face to try and read her expression, realizing a moment too late that maybe she doesn’t want to answer that question. She hasn’t talked much about her own sexual encounters. Maybe she doesn’t want to. _Stupid_. Now he’s ruined it, should have kept his mouth shut. “Sorry, if you don’t wanna—”

“I lost count.”

“Oh.”

She smirks. “It felt like torture at times, you know? But when that wave would crest…” She trails a suggestive finger down his chest, baby blues boring into him. He can feel her breath on his face.

Sam shivers, his own breath catching. He does know. The buildup between each peak borders on painful, but it’s almost worth it for the way his world turns upside-down when the coil finally pops. He belatedly nods in response to her question. When she pauses to draw tantalizing patterns over his sternum, he can’t help it, rolls to his side to capture her lips again. It’s a salty kiss, the lingering tang of his own sweat and semen distant in her mouth. It’s the evidence of what she’s just done, how she went down on him without a moment’s hesitation and carried him into perfect bliss. Sam finds himself deepening the kiss. She sighs into his mouth when his hands find her waist, pulling her close and simply savoring her.

Not until he’s worked all the way back up does Sam realize he’s rutting against her. As soon as he does, he stops – but Fragile rolls on top of him, not breaking their kiss for a moment. He gasps when he feels her line up with him, a damp patch on her panties.

“You—” he gasps, cut off when she kisses him again.

“Don’t worry about me,” she breathes, raggedly.

It’s the best thing he’s ever heard, her words against his lips as she grinds against him. Shit, he’s going to get off just on this, like a horny teenager in the back seat of a car.

And she deserves better than that.

With every ounce of strength in his being, Sam breaks the kiss. “S-stop,” he whispers. He grips her hips firmly – at least, as firmly as he can with trembling hands.

Fragile does stop. Just like she said she would.

Bashfully, Sam whispers, “Not like this.”

Her tongue darts out to swipe across her swollen bottom lip, which she catches in her teeth.

Hands still at her waist, Sam thumbs at the elastic band of her underwear. “Can I…?”

It’s her turn to nod wordlessly. Sam has limited experience pleasuring women, but he hopes and prays his instincts will guide him, clouded as his judgment might be by seemingly-insatiable want. He’s precious about it at first, skimming his fingers just beneath the soft cotton.

Fragile sighs and melts into him. She presses her cheek against his, and then she whispers, “If you’re going to finally touch me, Sam, then fucking _touch me_. Please.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. He dips his fingers lower, gasping in unison with her when they find her hot, wet cunt and she utters a quiet, “ _Yes._ ”

The angle is difficult between them, but he finds a rhythm in a small, circular motion that makes her writhe and moan on top of him until she’s shuddering, praises tumbling from her lips that make him squirm, both embarrassed and proud. More than either, he’s so close to coming again he can barely think or see straight.

She kisses him again, pleased hums vibrating between them as her tongue delves into his mouth, finally, like he’s not the only one who wants _more_ this time. Fragile pulls his hand out of her underwear, where he’s just sort of awkwardly _cupping_ her. He’s disappointed for exactly one second; she tugs her panties to the side and then he feels that same glorious, wet heat slide against his dick, flesh on flesh now. Her hand is still between them, and she uses it to guide him inside. Sam gasps, toes curling as his mouth falls open.

It’s so much different, so much better than anything she’s done for him so far. The soft muscles inside of her quiver and twitch and squeeze against him, slick and hot and all-enveloping and _perfect_. She barely moves at first, just sinking slowly onto him, loose and welcoming from her own orgasm. She gazes down at him as she does, like she’s moving willfully slow. Enjoying the joining.

Sam can’t take it anymore.

He wraps his arms around her waist and rolls them over. Fragile gasps and squeals, but she’s smiling. She holds on to him just as tightly. When he braces his forearms on the bed, framing her, he realizes just how small she is. She doesn’t seem small. It always feels like she towers him, like he’s looking up at her, one inch tall in her presence. But his arm is as thick as her neck. She’s delicate, dainty – no, she’s wiry and tough, but not big at all. Sam’s hips find motion. His first impulse is to drive into her, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to slow down, to be gentle. He doesn’t want to hurt her, wants it to feel just as good for her as it does for him. Even if he’s losing his goddamn mind.

“Your shirt…?” he whispers.

She shakes her head. “I’d rather keep it on.”

He doesn’t argue, understands her apprehension and settles for another kiss. Part of him is relieved; that much of her skin against his might be too much, and he doesn’t want to undo anything, take any steps backward or lose any courage he has built up.

Fragile claws at his waist, legs locking tightly around his hips. She encourages his movements with her calves, breaking the kiss to say, “Don’t hold back.”

Sam lets his head fall, forehead against hers. They share the air between them. Her body bounces with each thrust of his hips. He has a moment to be thankful there’s no headboard to bang against the wall. The cot doesn’t even squeak as they move together. Soft pants and the lewd squelch of their bodies where they’re joined are the only sounds in the room, until Sam’s hips start to stutter, his thrusts becoming uneven and shaky.

“A little more,” Fragile whispers. “Please, just a little more.”

Sam grits his teeth, certain he won’t last much longer. But he won’t leave her behind, either. All he can think to do is leverage one arm behind her neck, centering his balance so he can reach down and frantically rub her clit.

If her sudden keen and the arching of her back are anything to judge by, she approves.

“O-oh! Sam, I’m gonna—” She doesn’t finish the thought, mouth falling open as her head lolls to the side against his arm. Her walls clench down around him as she comes. The sight of her, lips parted in bliss beneath him, and her breathy moans and the way her cunt tightens around his cock, it’s the final thing he needs to push him over the edge with her. He falters in his movements, holding her tightly as he feels another powerful orgasm rip through him. It’s deeper than before, broader than before, and it holds over almost too long, prolonged by the sensation of Fragile enveloping him.

When it does end he collapses, careful not to crush her but not terribly concerned with resting against her body.

She fights for breath as hard as he does. For the first time since being intimate, he returns her affections, trailing kisses from her ear to her collarbone. She hums approvingly, running her fingers through his hair.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Think that’s my line,” he replies against her skin.

“Well, perhaps then the feeling is mutual.”

She doesn’t complain when he slides out. He rolls onto his back to rest, at least for a moment. He needs a shower. She probably needs a shower too. But she snuggles against his side, lifting her head and encouraging his arm to wrap around her. Her head rests on his shoulder.

“Is this alright?” she asks.

Sam nods. As if to prove it, both to her and himself, her pulls her close and wraps his other arm around her. The contact borders on overwhelming, but it’s immeasurably satisfying to hold someone in his arms. To hold _her_ in his arms. He presses his face into her hair and breathes in her scent. It’s earth, and soap, and something sweet and uniquely _Fragile_. He knows that a simple _thank you_ could never encompass how he feels. So he holds her and relishes in her hand on his chest, in the contact he never gets to enjoy because of his own stupid hangups and fears. She accepts him. All of him. And he knows that, when he wakes, she’ll be at his side. She won’t leave him to deal with any more of this on his own.

It’s with those thoughts that he finally, _finally_ drifts off into deep, restful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Good LORD let me tell you a story about this story.
> 
> First of all, I have not finished playing Death Stranding because I'm an idiot who regularly reads/writes fanfic before I finish something. I'm not sure what my fucking problem is, but there you go.
> 
> I love sex pollen stories, but I've never written one so I was terrified by the premise. I'm also a cis woman, and while I'm obviously familiar with the act of male masturbation I've never personally experienced it. Fortunately, a good friend of mine and I recently discovered that we both enjoy erotic fiction, soooooo...he beta read this for me. And I've never been more mortified in my entire life waiting to hear his feedback - BUT THANKFULLY it was mostly good. I'm glad to know I had the mechanics down pretty well, "sex pollen" elements notwithstanding. Also, last time I had someone beta read a smut story, they described it as, "Erotic as vegetable soup." which did not instill confidence in me. My friend said this was not the case, but y'all need to tell me if he was just being nice.
> 
> I'm not exactly happy with it as a final product, and there might be mistakes but sometimes we have to let our art be DONE. Feel free to rip me to shreds in the comments, I don't mind and prefer honest criticism :D
> 
> Anyway, for weeks I had visions in my head of Sam burning up in heat and the only way to exorcise those demons was to completely crush them. How does one do that? By writing a fanfic that I revised like eight billion times. Definitely got it out of my system. So I hope you all enjoy this as much as my imagination did. It's also long as fuck, and I'm not sure how that happened because I usually UNDER write so...if you made it this far, congratulations. You're more patient than I am when I'm browsing Ao3 for smutty fic.
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> ETA: Thank you all very much for the positive feedback! I was genuinely mortified of sharing this, and your kind words have filled my heart. <3


End file.
